


Brothers in Arms and Spirit

by Bofur1



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Aging, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Existential Angst, Gen, Slice of Life, Survivor Guilt, lots of feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 13:08:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Bofur1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>There were no Orcs around these parts, not since Lord Sauron’s demise. Therefore Dwalin battled the tree in the front yard, sinking his weapons into the bark that was nearly as old as he was. It was the only time of solace he had each day.</em>
</p><p>  <em>Eventually his arms would tire and his knees would ache from standing for so long. Then Dwalin would sink to the ground and stare at the tree, wondering again how he had carried this burden of guilt with him for so many years.<em></em></em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Brothers in Arms and Spirit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [in_a_blog_in_the_ground](https://archiveofourown.org/users/in_a_blog_in_the_ground/gifts).



> You and I talked about this recently and I just had to write it, so I gift it to you, my friend. <3

Dwalin released a heavy sigh as he fidgeted, trying to adjust the weapons that were poking him.

He should have known not to try swinging the old things again. He had promised himself years ago that his fighting days were over, that he could and would move on. Yet no matter how many times he tried to lock his weapons away in his shed, the urge to train returned to him and before he knew it his hammer and twin axes had somehow walked out of the shed and back into his scarred, faintly tattooed hands.

There were no Orcs around these parts, not since Lord Sauron’s demise. Therefore Dwalin battled the tree in the front yard, sinking his weapons into the bark that was nearly as old as he was. It was the only time of solace he had each day.

Eventually his arms would tire and his knees would ache from standing for so long. Then Dwalin would sink to the ground and stare at the tree, wondering again how he had carried this burden of guilt with him for so many years.

The worst part of the routine came next. The old tree would vanish, replaced by a broad Dwarf with regal bearing, brushing off his prized coat and fluffing the shabby fur on his shoulders. Dwalin would always watch, amused, as Thorin did this before important meetings. Eventually he had come right down to it and stated matter-of-factly, “You’re doing it wrong.” Thorin had been surprised but teachable as Dwalin showed him a better way. The pure excitement and pleasure on Thorin’s face was forever etched into Dwalin’s memory. Then Thorin died.

Next it would be two Princes, chasing each other around their mother’s skirts. Dwalin would see himself walking through the door and the children would pause. Their eyes would light up as they recognized him and they’d run to him screaming in glee. Dwalin scooped them up and set them on his shoulders, though Kíli always found a way to get atop Dwalin’s head moments later. Dís, always-gorgeous Dís, would laugh at him and Dwalin would finally feel as though the world were right. Then Dís, Fíli, and Kíli died.

Then a delighted voice would echo in Dwalin’s ears. _“Oh! Haha, evenin’, brother!”_ A stout Dwarf with fluffy white hair and beard would bob a polite bow before him. Dwalin could feel the tingle as their foreheads knocked together affectionately and the gentle pat of Balin’s kind, familiar hand on his shoulder. Balin would beam at him and Dwalin’s heart would crumble. His older brother had never simply smiled. He _always_ beamed and when he did his eyes would glow like the morning sun had opened up inside of him. Then Balin died.

All the others would come next—Bifur ever trying to fight as well as him, Bofur ever trying to make him laugh, Bombur ever trying (and succeeding) to eat and drink more than him. Nori ever trying to be faster than him, Dori ever trying to straighten him up, Ori ever trying to impress him. Glóin ever trying to get his opinion on something, and Óin ever trying just to hear him. One by one they would appear and one by one they would die.

Today, Dwalin decided, it would be different. Hugging his axes and war hammer to his chest, he leaned his back against the old tree and closed his tear-filled eyes. Today, his brothers would come once again to him, but when they disappeared back to the Halls he would be with them.

No Dwarf had ever forced himself to die, as far as Dwalin knew. But he’d lived 309 years on this earth and with each passing day he’d known deeper in his heart that Mahal would bless him with this gift. All he had to do was let go and Mahal would accept him into the Halls.

Dwalin forced his broad body to relax, resisted the urge to get up. He thought of his family, his brothers in arms and soon in spirit. He had the strangest sensation of being pulled upward and when he opened his eyes again, he choked out a sob of relief and joy.

“Oh...” Balin’s voice was soft. “Evenin’, brother.”

 


End file.
